


More than Convenient

by infiniteeight



Category: Rambo Series (Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, First Time, M/M, Past Trautman/OMC, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 04:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12719883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteeight/pseuds/infiniteeight
Summary: (Set about a year after Rambo 3, in an A/B/O 'verse.)When John is twenty, he falls in love with Sam, but Sam already has a bondmate.When John is forty, he finds out things have changed, but now he's running out of time.





	More than Convenient

At seventeen, John is wholly convinced that there isn’t an alpha in existence that he could possibly want to mate with. It isn’t so much their expectation that the omega will stay home and keep house and make babies that’s the problem. That might be the _expectation_ , but enough omegas are forging different lives for themselves now that most people don’t react too badly when John makes it clear he isn’t interested in that life. Once he starts putting on some real muscle, they often aren’t even surprised.

No, the problem is that mating means _bonding_ , and bonding means sharing your emotions with your partner, whether you like it or not. Bonding means always knowing where they are and what they need. Bonding means absolute surrender during sex--for both parties. John has never met a single person who warrants that kind of trust. Hell, his father was a prime example of why his mother should never have trusted someone like that. After she dies--in an accident, surprisingly, since John always thought it would be at his father’s hand--John gets the hell out of that house and joins the Army.

At twenty, John meets Samuel Trautman.

Trautman isn’t an atypical alpha. In fact, he’s practically the alpha poster child. The unique thing is that he’s _genuine_ about it. He doesn’t just say all the right things, his actions back them up. He honestly believes in what he’s doing, and he holds to the beliefs he expresses. 

John suspects some of Baker Team hate Trautman for the things he teaches them. For the things he makes them learn. For the missions he sends them on. But John doesn’t, because Trautman never expects more of them than he does of himself, and when the Team needs him--against the enemy or against the brass--he’s always, always there. Despite himself, over their years of training and service, John falls slowly, silently, hopelessly in love with Trautman.

He never says a word, of course. 

Not because he doesn’t _want_ to, much to his own surprise, but because nothing good could possibly come of it. Trautman is twenty years older than John and his commanding officer. Even if those things didn’t matter--and while John doesn’t think they’re insurmountable, he’s certain Trautman would--Trautman already has a mate.

He rarely speaks about his bonded. Trautman doesn’t share his personal life with his men. But he wears a wedding ring, and on the occasions he’s injured, a male omega perhaps a few years younger than Trautman visits him. It’s possible, but rare, to be married and not mated, but the final nail in the coffin is Trautman’s absolute lack of reaction to any omega’s preheat, John’s included. Nothing, up to and including castration, stops an alpha reacting to an omega approaching their heat, even if the only reaction was a little extra attention and a few extra sniffs. Nothing except a bondmate.

John finds Trautman’s unavailability strangely calming. An alpha like that _should_ be mated. He was the ideal mate. If he’d been single, John would have had to question every judgment he’s ever made about how that sort of thing is supposed to work.

But Trautman is mated, and life goes on. 

And on, until it’s been a full twenty years since they met.

In the four years John has been at the monastery, Trautman has only called for him twice, both times to cancel a meeting they’d planned because a mission had been cancelled or changed parameters. 

John isn’t expecting Trautman--no missions conveniently in the area at the moment, it seems--so he’s surprised when the head of the monastery calls him into his office, where the single phone resides. John picks up the receiver and says, “Hello?”, for once uncertain who is calling.

“John.” 

It’s Trautman after all. “Sir,” John acknowledges easily. “I wasn’t expecting you. What’s up?”

“I need you to come see me,” Trautman says.

John hesitates. Trautman has invited him to visit before, of course, but he’s never used the word “need”. “Is there something wrong?” John asks, instead of refusing like he usually does.

Trautman sighs. “I’m dying, John.”

John goes cold from head to toe. _Not cancer,_ he pleads silently. _Don’t let ‘Nam take the last of us, too._ “What happened?” 

“Bond deprivation,” Trautman says.

That doesn’t make any sense. Bond deprivation only happens in _one_ circumstance: when a bond is broken. Never bonding at all or losing a bondmate to death don’t trigger it. John can’t imagine anyone breaking a bond with Trautman, and even if his bondmate did leave-- “I thought it took years for bond deprivation to become that severe.”

“It does,” Trautman confirms. “Greg--” that must be his bondmate, though John never knew the man’s name “--left me four years ago.”

“What?” John blurts out. “ _Why?_ ”

Trautman sighs again. “Do you think we could have this conversation in person, John?”

John takes a deep breath and curses himself for not thinking. “Of course, sir. It, uh, might take me awhile to sort out transport.” He hadn’t travelled on standard paperwork, not even once in the past decade.

This time Trautman laughs. “No, it won’t. I made arrangements to smooth over your return to the U.S. years ago, John. Just in case you even took me up on one of my invitations. Just go to the embassy and tell them who you are. They’ll take it from there.”

He really should have known Trautman would have all his bases covered. “All right,” John says. “How do I reach you once I’ve landed?”

“You don’t need to reach me,” Trautman says. “I’m in the hospital. Walter Reed.”

John closes his eyes. “You’re that far along.”

“I’m sorry,” Trautman says quietly. “I should have said something sooner. But I couldn’t figure out how.”

John can’t think of anything to say. He settles for, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” From the relief in Trautman’s acknowledgement, that’s all he wanted, anyway.

Trautman wasn’t kidding when he said he’d made arrangements; from the moment John gives his name at the embassy, the entire process moves like it’s on rails. Records are processed, ID is produced, plane tickets are purchased, and no one says anything about his prison time, his pardon, or what he’s been doing for the last ten years. They even book him a hotel near the hospital. It all takes three days, which is a fucking miracle.

No one on the flight gives John so much as a sideways look. He feels like an imposter, shuffling onto a commercial flight alongside tourists like a regular person. The clothes he’s wearing aren’t even twelve hours old and the equally new gym bag he’s carrying contains literally everything he owns. He doesn’t belong amongst these smiling families and distracted businessmen.

After the plane takes off, the woman next to him asks if he’s going home. For a moment, John can’t figure out how to answer. He doesn’t have a home. “Visiting a friend who’s in hospital,” he says, which is more than he wants to admit, but side steps the question.

His seatmate makes a sympathetic noise. “That’s tough,” she says. “Will you be able to go home, after?” John doesn’t reply, mostly because he still doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to get personal with this stranger, but they’re going to be on a plane together for six hours, and this is just the first leg of the trip.

The woman apparently takes his silence as a question. “My best friend had to go home to take care of her father when he got sick,” she explains. “She said--and maybe this sounds terrible, but I swear it wasn’t like that--she said that as hard as it was seeing her dad so ill, the worst part was that she had to give up her entire life to do it. She had a job she enjoyed, and a good place to live, and a boyfriend, but her dad needed her and he couldn’t go to her, so she had to go to him. She spent three years taking care of him, knowing the entire time that there was nothing waiting for her at the end of it.”

“I’m not really leaving anything behind,” John says after a moment. “I’ve been… figuring things out.” But despite that, the story sounds more familiar than not: once Trautman is gone, he really will have nothing.

Maybe he isn’t so different after all.

*

The only reason John stops at the hotel after he arrives is because it’s well past visiting hours and he hasn’t got any grounds to insist on seeing Trautman outside of the designated time. He showers off the grunge of the plane and stretches out on the bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to get used to being back in the U.S. The hotel is a pretty bargain place, but it’s still quite a few steps up from John’s room at the monastery. They kept things basic, there. Maybe it’s a good thing visiting hours are enforcing an adjustment period--John doesn’t want to be off his game when he sees Trautman.

Six hours on the first plane and fourteen hours on the second have given John a lot of time to think about his next move. He’s pretty sure Trautman asked him to come so that they could say goodbye. Maybe he wants to take one more shot at getting John back to the U.S. and on the road to something like stability, even happiness. Trautman has been more invested in that the past few years than John has been. 

John is absolutely certain that it hasn’t occurred to Trautman that the only cure for bond deprivation is a new bond, and that John is an unbonded omega. 

It is, however, just about all John has been thinking of for the past twenty hours. He spent a few of them cursing his refusal to take Trautman up on one of his invitations to visit. If John had come to see him, he would have known that Trautman’s partner had left and he’d have had years to… well, to present his suit, as ridiculous as that sounds.

But he didn’t accept any of those invitations, and now he doesn’t have years. John is just going to have to hope that Trautman will be willing to bond with him, either for the sake of his own life or to spare John the loss of another friend. And if John has to confess a twenty year old secret to convince Trautman to let John save him… well, he was willing to do whatever it took to save Trautman in Afghanistan, and that hasn’t changed. 

*

John checks in at the hospital’s reception desk ten minutes before visiting hours begin the next day. He’s careful to be polite to the staff, and after checking in goes to sit down and wait without complaint.

The woman at the reception desk catches his eye exactly on the hour and nods. John returns it and stands, heading directly to Trautman’s room.

Trautman is watching the door when John comes in. John had let him know when his plane was landing, but not when he’d be coming by. It hadn’t seemed necessary--they both knew the answer was ‘as soon as possible’.

After Trautman’s phone call, John had worried that his friend had left calling until the last moment. Seeing him now is a relief. He doesn’t exactly look _healthy_ \--he’s pale and leaning back against the raised back of the hospital bed, clearly weak--but he’s also awake and sharp eyed.

“John,” Trautman greets him. “Thank you for coming.”

“I’d have been here a lot sooner if I’d known,” John said, pulling a chair up to Trautman’s bedside. “I can’t imagine your mate leaving you.”

Trautman smiles ruefully. “After Greg and I made it through ‘Nam without splitting up, neither could I,” he said. “We planned for how to handle my career. We planned for how to handle trauma. But it turns out you can’t always plan for all the ordinary the ways you change over time.”

“That’s it?” John asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“That’s it,” Trautman confirmed. “Sorry it wasn’t more dramatic,” he said dryly. “Just people growing apart.” John holds back the words. He knows they’re uncharitable. But Trautman gives him a look. “Spit it out, John.”

John gives him a look, but complies. “Growing apart was reason enough to leave you to die?”

“Bond deprivation takes years to set in,” Trautman says, “and Greg had every reason to believe I’d be able to find another mate.”

Most of that sounds rote, like Trautman’s repeated it to himself a few times, but the end comes out with a faint bitterness. John takes a guess. “He left you to be with someone else, didn’t he. He left you _for_ them.”

“Yes,” Trautman admits, looking away. “I knew he was unhappy. I tried to talk to him. When things started getting better, I thought I’d succeeded. But it wasn’t me.”

“And he couldn’t handle waiting for you to find someone else before he bonded with his new partner?” John says. 

Trautman looks back at John and shakes his head at the suggestion. “He didn’t _want_ to, but he said he _would_. Don’t turn Greg into a villain, John. He’d have waited. I told him not to. I said there was plenty of time and I didn’t want him to put his life on hold for me. It’s not his fault I’m dying, it’s mine.”

It’s just like Trautman to defend the mate who abandoned him. John isn’t about to forgive the man, but if Trautman doesn’t want to hear it, he won’t say it. “No prospects since he left?”

“Nothing serious,” Trautman says. “I haven’t been just sitting around waiting to die, John, I’ve been looking, but I can’t seem to connect with anyone, not like that.” He blows out a frustrated breath and sinks into the upraised bed. “I’ve made a couple of good friends, but no one I’m comfortable sharing all the unspoken and unspeakable best and worst parts of myself with.”

“What about me?” John asks.

Trautman’s brow wrinkles. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Would you be comfortable sharing those things with me?” John pauses. “I’m unbonded, sir. We can solve this problem right now.”

Trautman gives him a hard look. “You’re suggesting I bond with you to save my life?”

That isn’t the only reason, but it’s the easiest one. “Yeah.”

“I…” Trautman trails off, his expression slowly settling into something awkward, and John’s heart sinks. All the thinking he’d done, and he hadn’t considered that Trautman might be actively opposed to bonding with him, but reluctant to say so for fear of hurting him. 

The implication that he’d rather die than bond with John… John drops his gaze. “Nevermind,” he mutters.

“John,” Trautman says, voice painfully gentle. “I appreciate the offer. And I _would_ be comfortable sharing those things with you. But I very much doubt the reverse is true. Unless I’m missing something big, you’ve never even had a conversation with a bonded couple about what it’s like.”

John lifts his gaze. If Trautman is worried about him, he can work with that. “My parents were bonded,” he says. It’s true, even if--

“I hardly think that’s the relationship you want to model,” Trautman says dryly. 

John snorts sheepishly. Should have figured Trautman would remember that, even if John had hardly ever spoken about it. “Okay, yeah, but I _trust_ you, sir.”

Trautman smiles a little. “And I’m honored by that trust, but it’s not trust we’re talking about. It’s intimacy. You don’t even use my name, John.”

“That’s respect,” John protests.

“It’s respect until the second or third time I ask you to call me Sam,” Trautman says. “After that, it’s avoidance.”

Frowning, John considers that for a moment. Trautman isn’t wrong, he realizes. He’s just not right in the way he thinks. “I wasn’t avoiding it because I didn’t want to get personal,” John says eventually. “I was avoiding it because getting personal didn’t seem like a good idea.”

“Why not?” Trautman asks.

John reminds himself that Trautman’s life is on the line and figures he might as well get it all out on the table at once. “Because I’ve been in love with you for something like twenty years now,” he says, “and you were bonded.”

Trautman stares. “You’ve been…” He doesn’t finish the thought, as if it’s too unbelievable to even be voiced. 

“Yeah.” John leaves it at that, letting Trautman have a minute to absorb the idea. 

Eventually, Trautman’s shock eases into something more pensive. “I thought you hated the idea of bonding.”

John nods. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met that made met think it could be good instead of terrible.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Trautman says slowly, “but we don’t actually know all that much about each other.”

John understands where that thought comes from. For the first seven years they knew each other Trautman was his commander, and going to war together is a hell of a lot different from knowing what someone is like on an ordinary day. Then they basically lost contact for almost ten years, and the first three years after they reconnected were dominated by crises and prison. They’ve only really been talking like regular people for the last four years, and most of that in the last one, since John got Trautman out of Afghanistan.

But knowing someone isn’t about volume of conversation. “I know what kind of man you are,” John says. “I don’t need to know what kind of toothpaste you prefer and whether you hate cooking or cleaning more to be sure of you.”

Trautman chuckles. “Don’t underestimate the annoyance generated by dishes left too long in the sink.” 

It doesn’t seem to be a real point, so John waits, because he can tell Trautman isn’t done. The silence stretches out, and eventually John realizes what Trautman might be having trouble finding the words to say. “I know you’ve never looked at me like that, sir. Sam. I’m not expecting any declarations. I’m not expecting anything to change even if you do agree to bond with me.” He pauses and waits for Trautman to meet his eyes. “I just want you to live,” John says. “I don’t have a problem sharing a bond with you. If that’s not something you want, I’ll deal with it, but don’t refuse for my sake.”

“You’re right, this isn’t something I’ve ever considered,” Trautman admits. “I’m going to need to think about it.”

Well, it’s not a no. “Okay. Do you want me to leave?”

Trautman looks at him for a moment. “No,” he says eventually. “Stay.”

The conversation they have after that isn’t anything like their usual talks. That doesn’t surprise John--soon they’ll either be bonded or Trautman will be gone, so it makes sense that they’d talk differently. He lets himself hope that the fact Trautman isn’t talking about arrangements for after he’s gone means he’s leaning towards bonding on some level.

Instead, they talk a bit more about where things went wrong with Greg. John mostly remembers to call Trautman ‘Sam’ and forces himself to talk a bit about what it had been like between his parents. Their relationship is a terrible example of a bond, but if he needs to prove to Trautman that he can handle emotional openness, it’s the most effective topic.

Trautman talks about his parents, too. John isn’t sure if that’s intended as reciprocity or as reassurance that good, lifelong bonds _do_ exist. Either way, it’s a side of Trautman John has never seen before. He smiles when he remembers them. John has seen him smile before, of course, but not like this. This is a soft expression, the kind of thing you don’t show to other military men, whether or not they’re under your command. 

When lunchtime comes, John goes out and gets sandwiches for both of them from a deli that’s not too far away. The nurses assure him they don’t mind the outside food in Trautman’s case, since nutrition isn’t an issue. Considering the bond deprivation and John’s status, which is apparent to anyone with a nose, he wouldn’t be surprised if they’re also silently encouraging anything that might bring him and Trautman together.

John stays until the end of visiting hours. Just before he goes, Trautman brings them back to the real topic at hand. “I’ve got some things to think about,” he says, “but I want you to think about a few things, too.” John nods. He can tell from Trautman’s frown that Trautman is worried he isn’t taking this seriously, but he can’t think of anything that would change his mind. “I don’t want a part time mate,” Trautman goes on, “no matter who it is. I want to live with them, to see them every day, to make a life together.” He pauses. John waits. “I’ll still be military, if I survive this, which means leaving D.C. isn’t an option. So you need to decide if you can be happy in the States, living in a big city, sharing your life with a military man when you’ve been trying to get away from that life for years.”

John starts to speak, and Trautman interrupts him. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter. Once we’re bonded, I’ll feel it if you’re unhappy. It matters. And--” he interrupted John again, “--don’t tell me you’ve already thought about it. Think about it more. Think about Colonels and Generals and other brass coming for dinner, because it’ll happen. Think about what you’ll spend your days doing. Think about the kind of holidays you see in the movies, because when I spend them with my sister and her family, it looks a lot like that.”

“Okay,” John says, after waiting a minute to be sure Trautman is done. “I will.” Trautman gives him a searching look, but eventually nods and lets him go.

Trautman has a point. John has thought about some of that already--about living in D.C. and about being as close to the Army as being bonded to Trautman would mean. But he hadn’t considered how he’d deal with having their home invaded by the brass, or about what their personal life would look like outside the two of them. 

It’s not going to change his mind. None of that is anywhere near important enough to let Trautman die. Far from being a discouragement, Trautman’s advice gives John a few ideas for how to get Trautman on board with bonding. 

Getting a hold of his sister’s phone number feels too easy; she’s his emergency contact at the hospital. It seems like there ought to be more security around Trautman’s personal information, but no matter how important he is to John, he’s not in a particularly sensitive position, as far as the Army is concerned. 

The phone only rings twice before someone picks up. “Fischer residence.”

Apparently people actually answer the phone like that. “I’d like to speak to Joyce Fischer, please,” John says carefully. 

“Speaking.” Her voice is calm and a little bit distracted. She probably thinks he’s a salesperson, since she doesn’t recognize the voice. 

“Ma’am, my name is John Rambo,” he begins. “I served with your brother in Vietnam.”

Her tone is immediately concerned. “Is Sam okay? The hospital said they’d let me know when it was… time. I can--”

“He’s still strong,” John interrupts quickly. “I saw him today. Everything’s--” he couldn’t say fine, because it wasn’t “--the same.”

“Okay.” John can hear her taking a slow breath. “I apologize, but you can understand my reaction, if you saw him today.”

John nods even though she can’t see him. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And you are calling me about Sam.”

“Yes, ma’am,” John repeats. He pauses, not sure how to go on. “I don’t know if he’s talked about me at all,” he starts before faltering again. How the hell does he explain their history? 

Fortunately, Joyce steps in. “He has,” she says. “More than anyone else he’s served with, actually.” 

It’s her turn to hesitate, and John can guess why. “Then I’d bet he’s mentioned getting me out of some trouble since then.”

“Yes,” she admits. “Though from what he’s told me, you’ve returned the favor.”

“I guess I have.” John hadn’t actually thought about it like that. He just hadn’t wanted to lose Sam. Going after him in Afghanistan had been selfish; John hadn’t given even one thought to Sam’s mission, or his family. He pauses a moment to make sure he gets the next bit right. “Sam is important to me, and I don’t want to lose him. I’m an omega, and I’m not bonded, so I offered to bond with him.”

“He said no,” Joyce says. It’s not a question.

Her certainty is unexpectedly encouraging, given Trautman’s actual response. “He said he’d have to think about it.” Joyce is silent for a long time. “Is that a bad thing?” John asks after a moment. 

“I don’t know if you know this,” she says eventually, “but the hospital has a service that specializes in matching up alphas and omegas suffering from bond deprivation. It’s not matchmaking. They make it extremely clear that they can’t account for emotional compatibility. But they also don’t see any reason for someone to die when the solution is so simple. They do blood tests, and they find the partner most likely to form a stable bond, and the pair have a supervised bonding. After that, they don’t even have to have sex as long as they meet up once a week or so.”

“I didn’t know any of that,” John says when she stops.

“I’m not surprised,” Joyce says. “Sam wouldn’t have mentioned it. He didn’t tell me about it. I did my own research on bond deprivation because what he told me about the measures the hospital was taking sounded like nothing more than palliative care, and I couldn’t believe there wasn’t _some_ type of treatment. When I called him, I was infuriated because I thought the hospital had neglected to inform him of all his options. You know what Sam told me after he set me straight?” John says nothing, and after a moment she goes on. “He told me that given the choice between dying and desecrating something that he regarded as precious, he’d prefer to die. I can’t imagine what you could have told him to make him even _consider_ changing his mind about that, because I’ve been trying for months and getting nowhere.”

“I don’t think he’s considering changing his mind,” John says slowly, reconsidering his conversation with Trautman even as he speaks. “I think he’s trying to figure out if I was serious, and how he feels about it.”

“About your offer?” Joyce questions.

“No. About me having been in love with him since back in ‘Nam.”

Joyce is silent for a long time after that. “I guess he would need to think about that,” she says eventually. “Why did you call me, John?”

John drops his gaze, feeling suddenly self-conscious. The conversation has already gotten plenty personal, he’s not sure why he’s feeling that way now. “Sam said that while he was thinking about my offer, I should be thinking about what life would be like with him. He mentioned you and your family specifically. I figured the best to way to get an idea about that was to talk to you.”

Joyce’s voice warms like she was expecting a different answer. “Well, I can’t argue with that, even if I see less of Sam than I’d like, given his assignments. But I hope you understand that I’m going to want to get to know you, too, if you’re wanting to bond with my brother.”

“Fair enough,” John says.

The conversation after that is less tense and yet more difficult. If not for the day-long visit with Trautman, John would be sure he’s spoken more in the two hours he spends on the phone with Joyce than in the preceding fifteen years. It doesn’t come naturally, but every time he stumbles to a halt she somehow moves them past the awkwardness. When Joyce finally has to go and they hang up, John feels exhausted, but he’s also started really thinking of Trautman as Sam, and a family dinner seems a little less like something that would spit him out like soured milk.

*

John brings Sam breakfast the next day and they’ve been eating and, occasionally, talking for all of ten minutes when Sam stops and says, “What changed between yesterday and this morning?”

John’s not sure what’s different, other than him not stumbling over Sam’s name anymore, but it’s not like it’s a secret. “I called your sister.”

“Joyce?” Sam’s eyebrows go up.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You said I should think about what it’d be like,” John says. “I figured she could tell me more about that.”

“Huh.” Sam sips his coffee. “I guess she could.”

John is quiet a moment himself, debating his next comment. He puts down his coffee. “She also told me about the hospital’s matching program for bond deprived alphas and omegas, and why you turned it down.”

“I’m not hesitating to bond with you for the same reason,” Sam says immediately. “I hope you know that. A bond with you wouldn’t be… disrespectful.” He sounds like he means something else, but John doesn’t call him on it for now. “But I want you to be happy, and I’m not sure my life can do that for you.”

“What will, then?” John challenges. “What’ll it take to make me happy, Sam?” Sam pauses, setting down his own coffee without meeting John’s eyes, and John knows he still believes what he’d told John back before Afghanistan. “You said I needed to come to terms with what I am,” John goes on. “Acceptance. And you remember what I said I wanted?”

“To belong to something,” Sam says quietly. 

John waits until Sam looks up and meets his gaze. “You think maybe a bond could help with those things?”

Sam gives him a long look. “Maybe it could.” 

They finish breakfast quietly. John gets rid of the cartons and utensils--they’re not hospital materials, he’s not going to make the staff deal with them--and comes back to find Sam leaning back against the bed, eyes closed. “Sam?” John murmurs. “You want me to go? Let you rest?”

“No,” Sam says, but it takes another minute before he opens his eyes. “You know what I’m most afraid of?” John just shakes his head. Sam closes his eyes again, and there’s grief in the lines around his mouth. “I’m afraid that I’ll never feel as deeply for you as you do for me, and you’ll feel it in the bond, and you’ll end up hating it."

“Sam,” John says carefully, “at what point did I ever say I expected you to feel _anything_ for me?”

Opening his eyes, Sam looks at John and frowns. “We’ve been talking about trust and intimacy and sharing our lives this whole time.”

“Yeah,” John agrees. “But the only thing I said about how _you_ feel was that I didn’t expect anything to change.”

“But… bonding is for mates,” Sam says. “It’s supposed to be a… a gift, to help you be close.”

John’s heart sinks. That sounded an awful lot like Sam’s rationale for refusing the hospital’s program. “Why just for mates?” he asks. “Why can’t it be for the most important person in your life, whether they’re your mate or not? Just because you have to have sex to get it started?” John snorts. “I’ve had sex with more people I didn’t care about than with people I did.” He’s an omega, and suppressants aren’t easy to come by in Thailand. He spends his heats with professionals.

“The most important person in your life,” Sam murmurs, but he doesn’t appear to be talking to John. He’s lost in thought for awhile. Eventually, his gaze sharpens. “A year ago, after you broke me out of that Soviet camp, you remember when it was you and me against what seemed like an army?” 

“Yeah,” John nods. 

“I was starting to feel the bond deprivation, then,” Sam says. “It wasn’t bad, but it was noticeable. I knew the end was coming. And I thought, this is a good way to go out.” He huffed a laugh. “I’d been captured, and tortured, and we were facing certain death, and when you said, ‘Fuck ‘em,’ I think that was the happiest I’d been in years: Spitting in the eye of the bad guy with my best friend at my side.”

John could feel his hopes rising again, but he said nothing.

“A good way to go out,” Sam repeated. He looked at John, “Maybe a pretty good way to live, too.”

“Does that mean you’ll bond with me?” John asks.

Sam smiles. “Yes.”

John lets out a long breath, a weight lifting from his shoulders. “Should I get the doctor? I’m guessing this won’t work the regular way, considering.”

“Probably a good idea,” Sam agrees.

Sam’s doctor is unabashedly relieved when John tells him that Sam has agreed to bond. They go back to Sam’s room to talk about how it’ll work. Sam is weak enough that the bonding needs to be supervised, but strong enough that the supervision doesn’t have to include wiring him up to all the monitors. They’ll go to a bonding room, John will get a shot that will trigger a mild heat, and a nurse will watch through one way glass to make sure everything goes smoothly. That’s all--though the doctor does warn them not to get too “vigorous”.

“Doctor,” Sam says when the man is done with his explanatory spiel, “John and I have known each other for a long time, but sex has never been a part of it.” He glances at John, but it’s not worth getting into the emotional details. “Would it be possible for him to stay the night? Sleeping in the same bed might help mating feel more… natural.”

John’s heat, even a mild one, will prompt a response from Sam regardless, but neither John nor the doctor say anything about that. “It’s against protocol for the regular rooms,” the doctor says, “But let me check the bonding rooms. If they’re free overnight, I don’t see any reason why not.” Sam nods and he leaves.

Sam is quiet after the doctor leaves. John gets the feeling that, as much as Sam said that he’d think about it, he hasn’t actually been thinking about what being bonded to John would be like for him. Based on their conversation, he’s probably been thinking more about what it would be like for _John_ , about why the bond couldn’t really be what John wanted, or why it wouldn’t be good for him. Sam is only now thinking about how it will change his own life.

John doesn’t want him to overthink it, though. “You should call your sister,” he says, breaking into Sam’s thoughts. “Let her know things have changed.”

“Hmm?” Sam blinks and focuses on John again. “Ah. Yes, you’re right.”

John moves the phone by the bed into easy reach. “You want me to step out while you talk?”

Sam shakes his head even as he picks up to dial. “I imagine she’ll want to speak to you, as well.” He pauses, presumably waiting out a ring or two. “Hi Joyce, it’s me. Joyce-- Joyce, it’s okay, everything’s fine,” Sam says. John remembers yesterday’s phone call and realizes that every phone call from Sam must be something to be feared. Sam’s voice goes gentle. “Everything really _is_ fine. John tells me he spoke to you yesterday.” A long pause, during which Sam starts smiling. He covers the handset and whispers to John, “She’s singing your praises.”

“She’s biased,” John says dryly.

Sam waits another moment before giving in and breaking into whatever his sister is saying. “Joyce. Joyce. I’ve already agreed. Yes, I’m serious. About ten minutes ago.” Another long pause, and this time Sam’s expression sobers before he says, gently, “It’s okay, Joyce. Everything’s going to be okay. I know. I’m sorry.” The murmured reassurances go on for awhile. 

Eventually Sam waves John over, and he goes and perches on the edge of the bed facing Sam as he takes the phone. “Hey,” he says, and leaves it there because he’s not sure what else to say.

“John,” Joyce says warmly. She’d been friendly before, but there’s a new weight to it now. “Thank you for saving my brother’s life.”

“It’s not the first time,” John says, and winces because that’s probably the last thing she wants to hear from him.

But Joyce just laughs. “No, but usually it’s not his own stubbornness that he needs to be saved from. I didn’t think there was one person on Earth who could change his mind once he’d made it up, especially about something like this. I’m glad there is. I think it’ll be good for him. And I’m very much looking forward to meeting you in person.”

“Likewise,” John says, even though the thought is actually kind of frightening, because it’s the polite thing to say.

Joyce sees through the politeness, though, because she replies with, “I promise I’ll make it as painless as possible.”

John huffs a half laugh. “You’re reminding me a bit of Sam, so that helps.”

“I should let you get back to him,” she says. “I just wanted to say thank you, and welcome to the family.”

John blinks and manages a, “You’re welcome,” before handing the phone back to Sam, who says his goodbyes and hangs up.

“You look a little shell shocked,” Sam says.

“‘Welcome to the family,’” John says.

Sam’s expression gentles. “I know it’s going to be an adjustment,” he says, “but you are family.”

John looks away. “That hasn’t always been a good thing for me.”

After a moment, Sam’s hand comes to rest on John’s knee. “I’m hoping we’ll change that.”

Eventually, John makes himself look back at Sam. There’s no pity in his expression, only warmth, and that makes it a little easier. “Me too.”

The doctor comes back about a half hour later to let them know that they’ll be able to move into the bonding room at 9pm and stay overnight, as long as they have no objection to bonding pretty much first thing in the morning. They agree, of course.

Sam asks if John wants to take some time to himself that afternoon, but he declines. He can’t help being a little afraid that if he leaves, Sam will find a reason to change his mind. The look Sam gives him tells John that he’s guessed why John is sticking around, but he doesn’t call him on it.

When the time comes, an orderly arrives with a wheelchair to move Sam. John’s stomach twists at the sight. Sam catches the expression and smiles. “Hospital policy,” he says, but he can’t hide the way he trembles when he gets out of bed to transfer into the chair. It makes John feel helpless, and he has to remind himself that this is something that he can--that he’s going to--fix.

The bonding room almost looks like a regular, if plain, bedroom. There’s a mirror that John knows must be the one way glass leading to the room where the nurse will monitor them and a space along one wall marked with scuffs. In cases more severe than Sam’s, the medical equipment would be set up there, John guesses. 

There’s a small fridge by the bed. John opens it, trying not to think about the orderly helping Sam get ready for bed. There’s nothing inside but a few bottles of water. The doctor explained that they only needed a short, mild heat to form the bond, and that it was better not to stress Sam’s body. It’ll only take a couple of hours, start to finish, so there’s no need for a stockpile of food. The thought is oddly disappointing, but there will be other heats.

“Bathroom’s free,” Sam says.

John turns to find him making his way slowly to the bed, the orderly trailing behind him and frowning. Sam probably insisted on walking without help. It’s foolish, but no alpha wants to look weak in front of their omega on the eve of their bonding. John suspects Sam wouldn’t have turned down an arm to lean on yesterday, and wonders if Sam even realizes he’s posturing.

In the bathroom, John finds one set of single use toiletries laid out on the sink. There’s another set, used, in the trash. There’s no storage in the room, but he guesses that makes sense; the hospital must have a central supply. 

Showering feels strange. At the monastery they worked hard and tried to keep water use down, which meant that John had gotten used to washing with a small basin and a cloth. He’s had showers since presenting himself at the embassy, but not twice in one day, and not in the evening. It’s not that it feels wasteful, John decides as he scrubbed himself down. It’s that it feels _special_.

But maybe it is special. He is, after all, getting ready to spend his first night with the man who is going to become his alpha.

John closes his eyes and ducks under the spray, turning the thought over and over in his mind. Sam is going to be his alpha. _Trautman_ is going to be his alpha. Despite his feelings for Sam, John has never once in his life felt the primal tug of bonding hunger that most omegas talk about. Trautman was absolutely unavailable, and no other alpha had ever triggered it.

He feels it now. It’s a strange, sharp feeling. It’s not painful, but the tug of it deep in his belly has John hurrying the last part of the shower. He wants to be with Sam, wants to be close enough to scent his alpha. 

John doesn’t have any sleepwear--not that he didn’t bring any with him, he literally doesn’t own any, just sleeps in his shorts--so he just hangs his shirt and pants on the towel rack in the bathroom. When he steps into the main room Sam, already settled in on one side of the bed, though he’s sitting up against the wall, stills for a moment at the sight of him half naked. John stops, still halfway across the room. After a moment, Sam rouses and offers John a smile. “Come on,” he says, patting the bed next to him.

John makes his way over to the bed, but instead of climbing in, he seats himself cross-legged on top of the covers facing Sam. “It’s not even ten yet,” he says. “If I get in next to you we’re just going to lie there staring the ceiling awkwardly for ages.”

“Or we could turn on our sides and stare at each other,” Sam suggests. 

“Oh. Yeah.” John hesitates, but when Sam pats the bed again he shifts around and gets under the covers. Sam lays down as well, and they turn onto their sides so that they can look at each other. Staring at the ceiling might have been awkward, but John thinks this may actually be worse. He has no idea what to say, and he isn’t ready to sleep.

It must show, because Sam says, “Have you ever shared a bed before?”

“Not to sleep,” John admits. He can count the number of serious bed partners he’s had on one hand with fingers to spare, and none of them lasted long enough for staying the night together to become a thing they did.

“It takes some practice before it stops being awkward,” Sam assures him. “And it’s different with every partner. Even after fifteen years together, Greg used to push me out of bed sometimes, he took up so much space.”

John debates his next question for a moment, but if Sam is talking about his ex, the topic can’t be off limits. “You miss him?”

Sam thinks about that for a minute. “I miss what we had for the first ten years,” he says eventually. “I miss how I felt when we were together those years. But I’m not that man anymore. If Greg had come to see me two days ago and begged forgiveness and told me he wanted to get back together, I think I’d have said no. Hell, if you magically erased his affair, I _still_ think I wouldn’t have taken him back.”

That wasn’t at all reassuring. It seemed like it should have been, but it wasn’t. 

“Are you okay?” Sam asks after a quiet moment. “Should I not talk about Greg?”

“No, that’s not it,” John assures him immediately. “It’s just-- I almost lost you. I could _still_ lose you, so easily. When you say you wouldn’t have taken your ex back, that doesn’t feel like a reassurance. It’s a reminder that you were prepared to die. Willing to die.”

Sam slowly reaches out and lays a hand on the wrist John has curled up in front of himself. “I’ve been willing and prepared to die every time I’ve gone into combat,” he says gently. “Why is this different?”

“When you go into combat, you go in intending to do _everything_ you can to come back,” John says fiercely. “You might be prepared to go out, but you leap at the chance to live and hang on. This time you decided living wasn’t worth it.”

Sam’s hand tightens on his wrist. “It’s not that I didn’t want to live, John. The last three years or so of my relationship with Greg weren’t good. We weren’t vicious to each other like some people get, but we _were_ unhappy. I don’t think I can explain what it’s like being bonded to someone who is unhappy, even depressed. Day after day after day with very little relief. It’s…” Sam closes his eyes momentarily, and for a moment John thinks he can see a shadow of that pain on his face. “It’s terrible,” Sam finally finishes. “And it’s not what a bond is supposed to be like. I believed--I still believe--that the bond is there so that you can help each other though times like that. I tried to use it that way. 

“But to Greg, the bond was part of the problem. It made everything that was wrong more immediate, and impossible to get away from. The number of times he wished he could just shut it down for awhile…” Sam went silent for a moment. “We had this remarkable connection, this gift, and he only seemed to want it when it was convenient and fun. I hated that. When the hospital told me about the matching program, it felt like the same thing: being tied to someone who doesn’t want the bond, who is only putting up with it because they don’t have a choice.”

“And you thought I was the same, too,” John realizes. “That I was only offering to save your life, and that I’d end up wishing I could turn it off.”

Sam nods. “When I go into combat, I’m willing to die because the cause is worth it. Happiness is worth it, too. Not just mine, yours too.”

“I promise,” John says, “that I’ll be a hell of a lot happier bonded to you than I would be alone.” He considers that again and adds, “Than I have been, alone.”

“And that’s why I said yes,” Sam replies.

*

John doesn’t exactly wake slowly, but for the first time in years he feels calm when he opens his eyes. There’s no nebulous tension from unremembered dreams, no sudden jolt into wakefulness from remembered ones, no sharp, wary feeling like waking in enemy territory. He knows, even before he’s fully alert, that he’s safe. It takes him a moment to realize what the difference is: he’s surrounded by Sam’s scent. 

Sometime during the night John had rolled onto his back, which was how he usually slept. Sam had migrated across the bed, towards John, and is now almost all the way off his pillow, his nose tucked against John’s shoulder and the hand that had been on his wrist now awkwardly poking into his armpit, threatening to tickle.

John expects Sam to stir awake at any moment. When he doesn’t, instead remaining deeply asleep even when John gently moves his hand to rest more comfortably on John’s chest, John frowns. Sam seemed reasonably well during their visits, but between his weakness the night before and his current exhaustion, John suspects he’d been saving all his energy to put up a good front.

It doesn’t matter, John reminds himself. They’ll bond, and Sam will get his strength back.

It’s almost another hour before Sam stirs. John watches as he comes awake and blinks in confusion briefly before his memory of the day before visibly rushes in. “Good morning,” John says, hoping to head off any awkwardness Sam might feel at waking up curled around someone he’s never regarded as a possible partner.

“Morning,” Sam returns, voice rough with sleep. He swallows a few times to smooth it out. “Been awake long?”

“Awhile. The doctor hasn’t come by yet.” John expects Sam to roll over to get a look at the clock on the wall, or even just ask for the time, but he just hums and closes his eyes, though he doesn’t go back to sleep. John wants to ask if he’s okay, but it’s a stupid question. He checks the time himself, instead: 7:38am. Just over twenty minutes until the doctor will be by with the injection to trigger John’s heat. “Sam?”

“Hmm. Yes?” Sam opens his eyes. 

“Did spending the night help?” Sam seems pretty comfortable, but John can’t help worrying he’ll balk when the time comes.

Sam lifts his hand from John’s chest and lays his fingers against John’s jaw. It’s more of a stroke than a tug, but John finds himself leaning over anyway. The kiss is light and gentle. John’s heart soars anyway: he’s kissing Sam. 

When they part, Sam smiles. “Yes.” He rests his hand on John’s chest again and brushes lips and nose over John’s shoulder. “It helps that you smell very good. I never really noticed that before.”

“You smell good, too,” John says. Scent is a better indicator of compatibility than any test the doctors can come up, but it can’t be objectively recorded and entered into a database for matching. The last nerves leave John. This is going to work. 

More than that, John is going to get basically everything he ever wanted. Sam’s already said he wants them to live together, to make a life together. John is going to belong somewhere, to have family, and he gets to do it with the alpha he’s loved his whole life. It doesn’t matter that Sam isn’t in love with him, because he’s still the person Sam is closest with, the one Sam is willing to trust his happiness to. As far as John’s concerned, the difference between that and love is pretty damn small.

The doctor arrives promptly at eight. He has a nurse with him, which confuses John--all it takes is a single injection to start his heat--until the doctor has both John and Sam confirm verbally that they’re consenting to a bonding before all four of them sign some papers. The nurse is there to be an official witness. Even so, it all takes about five minutes and then they’re gone, leaving John and Sam to wait for his heat to start.

“Are your heats difficult?” Sam asks once they’re alone. Active service omegas are required to take suppressants that dampen heats into a long pre-heat, so he’s never been around when John had to deal with them.

“Nah,” John says. They’re on their sides again. “I usually have one day of run up that I can ignore if I really want to, though it isn’t comfortable, and one day where I need to burn through it properly. If I have to, I can get right back to normal the day after, but I usually take it easy.” 

“That’s good.” Sam pauses; when he does speak, John’s pretty sure it’s not what he was first thinking. Probably remembering and comparing his ex’s heats. “I only shared a heat with one or two people aside from Greg,” he says, “but I seem to react in proportion. If it’s easy for you, I expect it’ll be easy for me.” Sam’s tone turned wry. “Unless the bond deprivation has fucked everything up, of course.”

“We’ll deal with that if it comes up,” John assures him. The look Sam gives him says he’s guessed that by “deal with that” John means he’ll suck it up and take it no matter what Sam does. Which is true, but also, “Hey, I won’t let you do anything that’ll make you regret this later.” Sam relaxes, then. Sometimes there are advantages to being broader and stronger than most men, alpha or omega, heat or no heat.

The doctor had said that the injection would kick in almost immediately, but it takes almost ten minutes before John notices anything. It starts as warmth under his jaw and in his armpits and groin. The feeling spreads from there until he’s flushed all over. Normally this is about how John would feel on waking up his second day, but of course the point is to jump straight to that point so they can get the bond completed and then wind down equally fast.

Despite Sam’s concerns about whether or not he’d be able to approach John sexually, he starts crowding closer when that flushed feeling is still spreading. With a couple of nudges, he eases on top of John, nose tucked into the curve of his jaw. By the time John’s scent glands start leaking oil, Sam is starting to get hard. He licks at the oil, and the moan that rumbles out of John is completely involuntary. Sam pauses at the sound, pressing up on one hand and looking John in the eye. “Don’t stop now,” John says, not trying to hide the roughness of his voice.

Sam is flushed, his eyes dilated, but he still hesitates. A spike of worry lances through John; Sam’s nostrils flare, scenting the distress.

John can see the moment Sam’s perception of him shifts from ‘friend I have never considered as a partner’ to ‘omega who needs an alpha’. The few times John has shared a heat with someone who isn’t a professional there to help him through it, he’s hated that moment of transition. It’s like he stops being himself and becomes an anonymous body.

This time, it’s just a relief that Sam reacts at all. He ducks down and kisses John, and there’s nothing tentative about it. This isn’t a friend figuring things out, this is an alpha giving their omega what they need. John lets himself go when he kisses back, because he’s not going to scare Sam off, not now. 

It helps that he trusts Sam. For the first time in his life, John stops trying to keep some level of control as his heat grows stronger. He doesn’t fight the pounding of his heart, doesn’t try to distract himself from the rich, inviting scent of the alpha, doesn’t hide the slick leaking from his hole. 

Instead he puts one arm around Sam, holding him close and secure, and cradles his head with the other hand. The kiss is deep, but not _hungry_ in that possessive way that most alphas get. Instead it feels like Sam is trying to give him something, like he’s trying to pour himself into John. Eventually the kiss eases. John isn’t actually sure at what point they stop kissing and start simply brushing lips and breathing each other’s air. 

Sam raises his head and licks his lips. His eyes are still blown with arousal, and John expects him to move things along. Instead, he says, “You okay?”

John has never seen that level of control from an alpha once his heat has truly kicked into gear, no matter how easy it is. It makes him want to laugh: of course Sam would still be looking out for him, even now. John smiles up at Sam, “Yeah,” he says. Sam smiles back, his scent taking on an extra thread of pleased musk. It makes John wonder what his own scent is telling Sam.

“Good,” Sam says. He sits up and pulls his t-shirt off over his head. 

The sight sends an arc of hunger through John. Sam isn’t some sculpted picture of alpha perfection, of course. Neither is he out of shape and ungroomed, but that’s not what makes John’s hands snap up, thumbs drawing a pair of lines up Sam’s abs while his fingers stroke over his flanks. No, the exciting thing is that Sam is baring himself to John. It’s that John gets to see him, something that he never believed would happen.

Sam tosses his shirt away and lets John touch him, shivering and catching his breath when John’s thumbs rub over his nipples, but doesn’t move otherwise. “Are you holding back?” John asks. 

“No.” Sam’s eyes half close as John drops his hands and rubs them hard over the small of his back. “Heats are about what the omega needs, and you don’t smell like you need me to go faster.” His eyes flutter open. “Do you?”

“No,” John agrees. “This is good.” Better than good. Less than an hour and it’s the best heat John has ever had. He takes one of Sam’s hands and draws him down into another kiss. Sam braces himself on his free hand instead of lying down atop John again, a choice John understands better when he shifts his hips and their cocks line up. Even through two layers of cloth, the feeling still draws an involuntary moan from John. Sam swallows the sound instead of breaking the kiss and rocks down against John. John’s body throbs all over, as if there’s too much feeling for just his cock and ass. He pants into Sam’s mouth and rocks up against him instead of spreading his legs.

They keep going like that, kissing and grinding, the air growing thick and heavy with their scents, until John can feel himself teetering on the edge. He forces himself to break the kiss. “Sam,” he pants. “I’m gonna come if we keep going.”

“Good,” Sam says, and kisses him again. He doesn’t make any move towards getting John ready to knot and fuck it, John has done his part by warning Sam, so he doesn’t try to hold back. 

There’s something ridiculously self-indulgent about coming during a heat without being knotted. The rush of pleasure is intense and easy at the same time. It leaves John feeling somehow full, which is bizarre given that he still has his shorts on, though they’re damp and heavy now. Maybe ‘replete’ is a better word than full.

Sam doesn’t come, but when John scrapes his attention back together, he’s smiling. “Gorgeous,” Sam murmurs.

“You need to finish?” John asks, stroking Sam’s hip and back. Arousal is still warming John, though it’s just a simmer now rather than a full boil, and he’s sure Sam won’t ask to knot him when he’s not primed for it.

“No,” Sam says, for all that his shorts are straining over the hard arch of his cock and damp where the head is pressing against the fabric. He kisses John slowly. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Sam peels John’s shorts down his legs and tosses them into the plastic hamper by the door. He sheds his own shorts before going to the bathroom and returns with a warm, damp washcloth that he uses to wipe John down. He follows up by drying him with a soft cloth. By the time he’s done, John is hard again.

Between that and the fact that Sam is already kneeling between his legs, John is expecting Sam to get to the main event. But Sam surprises him again, stretching out on the bed between John’s thighs instead of atop him and bending his head, breath hot against John’s cockhead before he takes John in his mouth.

Fuck guessing what Sam is going to next, John decides. He gets his hands on Sam, one on his shoulder and one on the back of his head, and just enjoys how damn _good_ Sam is at this. It’s all heat and suction and the firm grip of his hands on John’s thighs, holding them open. John feels like he’s moaning continuously, so much that he’s not sure he’ll ever catch his breath. 

He doesn’t even notice the low, deep tug of need taking on the sharp edge that means he’ll need a knot soon, not until Sam releases him and crawls up to kiss him and his cock brushes John’s inner thigh, the closest he’s come all this time. “Sam,” John gasps against his mouth.

“I know,” Sam murmurs, low and reassuring. “I’ve got you, John.”

Of course he does. Of course. John pulls Sam into a kiss, deep and intent, and Sam eases inside him at the same moment. For the first time, it’s everything John used to fantasize a heat being, back when he was a kid and hadn’t seen much of the world yet. It’s the ache of need being eased almost before he’s aware of it. It’s the solid weight of his alpha over him, imparting a feeling of security instead of claustrophobia. The generic, neutral bonding room fades into the background, overwhelmed out by Sam’s rich, deep musk and the way the touch of his body seems to draw the heat out of John. John wraps his legs around Sam, urging him on, but uses his hands to keep the kiss going despite their movements, because kissing Sam is somehow just as good as being fucked. 

Sam seems happy to oblige him, parting their mouths only when he needs to gulp in air, breathing through his nose not quite enough with his hips and thighs and back working to drive him into John again and again. He fills John so well, his cock thick enough to make John feel properly stretched even before his knot is ready. 

Just thinking about Sam’s knot sends a clench of hunger through John. He _wants_ it, wants those last desperate thrusts, his alpha’s strength driving into him, wants the terrifying, helpless moment when the knot swells inside of him because he knows it _won’t_ be terrifying, not with Sam. 

The moment that thought crosses his mind, John knows what else he wants, even though he’s never wanted it before. John breaks the kiss, still holding onto Sam. “I want to present for you,” he gasps.

John can actually feel Sam throb at the suggestion. “John--” he says, like he wants to give John a chance to reconsider, but he doesn’t finish. Maybe he can tell how much John wants it, or maybe he just wants it that much himself.

“Sam,” John says, and it comes out as a growl, not a plea. 

Sam huffs out a breath that might have been a laugh and carefully pulls back. They both groan when they separate--that’s damn near the last thing either of them wants. John scrambles onto his knees and elbows as fast as he can and Sam is sliding back into him almost before he’s settled. The moan that rumbles out of John as Sam takes him again is completely involuntary. It’s so damn good. John clutches the pillow and pants in sheer satisfaction; it’s _right_ to offer himself up like this, to allow his alpha to take him as deep and hard as he needs to. 

“John,” Sam groans, and yes there, that’s it, the thrusts rough and ragged and perfect. 

His knot swells, catching on John’s rim for a second before Sam buries it inside him. John shouts as he feels the hot rush of Sam coming and intense stretch of the tie taking hold, the sound full of pleasure and triumph. Sam sits back, pulling John with him, so that they’re kneeling back to front, John in Sam’s lap. His weight drives Sam’s knot deeper and John moans, cock throbbing even before Sam wraps a hand around him and brings him off with just a couple of strokes. 

In the midst of the wash of the pleasure and the satisfaction of the tie, it’s the easiest thing in the world for John to lean back against Sam and tilt his head to the side. The bite Sam lays high on his shoulder, against the base of his neck, is exactly as hard as it needs to be. For a moment John feels a rush of nerves, but when the bond slowly comes to life it doesn’t feel alien, it just feels like Sam. John relaxes and enjoys the ebbing pleasure and the anchor of the tie and the security of Sam, safe and strong in his mind and holding John close.

Everything is going to be fine.

~End~


End file.
